


and if the death we owe is the wake in your skin

by sunflower_8



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Ambiguity, Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon Compliant, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internal Conflict, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Minor Blood and Gore, Resentment, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, a sort of vent, just really ambiguous, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:14:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25516366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflower_8/pseuds/sunflower_8
Summary: he knows this, in every sense, in every fragment of his teenage psyche, but he keeps walking down the hallway. because, he can’t bring himself to go back. to hold a komaeda that feels like a corpse, to rationalize to himself that he can still love the fucked-up person he became with his fucked-up body and fucked-up thoughts, separate the concepts of he’s horrible and i love him when it’s damn near impossible to even thinkso he keeps walking, checks on the other patients, hangs in the lobby and waits for a catastrophe that he knows is bound to happen.(or, nonlinear snippets of hinata and komaeda's vague codependency, as well as their thoughts on each other in the quiet moments of disaster.)
Relationships: Hinata Hajime/Komaeda Nagito
Comments: 4
Kudos: 75





	and if the death we owe is the wake in your skin

_do we really deserve this?_

komaeda’s head rests in hinata’s lap, his hair being carefully braided by clumsy fingers. hinata’s never really braided anything before-- his hair has always been short, and it’s not like he could ask his endlessly busy mother to play with hers, but that’s from another lifetime-- but komaeda seems all-to-willing to be the victim of his inexperience…

… and it’s a nice summer day, endless summers on this tropical island, so what’s the harm? 

soda cans tucked under knees, coconuts looming above their heads, the gentle crashing of the waves not too far off, the sand that seeps into the grass, the twinkling grey eyes of komaeda, looking up at hinata with something like adoration, maybe even _infatuation_ if he really _searches for it_ -

-

- _is this really okay?_

“your hair is nice,” hinata blurts out, and it comes out a little _too_ tender for comfort. because, despite it all, komaeda’s still _weird._ he’s nice, good company, but a bit… disconcerting. a bit _off,_ even with his pretty smile and his cheerful voice, and… fuck. he shouldn’t be thinking about a guy like that.

well, not just a guy. komaeda, specifically. he shouldn’t be thinking about komaeda like that.

especially since… 

… “ahaha, thank you, hinata-kun! i’m honored that you think so!” he beams with a _lot_ more enthusiasm than hinata gave with the compliment itself. “my hair is _actually_ rather horrible and disgusting like the rest of me, but! i’m really glad you think it’s so nice, haha,” he finishes breathlessly.

it’s what he expects, really, from komaeda. still, his eyebrows furrow, a bit, and he huffs. “i meant it, y’know? it’s pretty.” _you’re pretty_ , he almost says, but he bites his tongue and holds it back. he hides a lot of sentiments from komaeda, honestly. from himself, even.

he can’t really get over the fact that this is wrong. 

komaeda’s face flushes, and it’s actually surprisingly cute. hinata justifies it to himself, says that the other is _objectively_ cute, that his cheeks are only pink from the heat. still, there’s a layer of _something_ in his still unbelieving voice, a breath and then, “ahaha, hinata-kun thinks my hair is pretty…?” hinata waits, patiently, for it to register. then it’s a bit impatient, but komaeda gets there in the end. “haha, this is some really good luck!”

_i’m not just a pawn to your luck,_ is another thing he has to bite back.

“i really wouldn’t be surprised if i found out two people i knew were dead, after this good luck! but, because i’m selfish, i might not even mind, haha!” he chirps, and it’s just a bit over the line of ‘concerning’ but hinata isn’t exactly going to try and breach that.

all he says is, “jeez,” and, really, he should definitely push it more, but komaeda’s giving him this kind of smile, and…

… “really, i can’t thank you enough for spending time with me, hinata-kun.” he sounds so sincere, so genuine, and- “you’re so beautiful and hopeful, haha! it’s almost sickeningly perfect!” 

_sickeningly perfect…_

hinata just sighs, grips his hair a bit tighter. komaeda winces, but he doesn’t complain, his smile still spread across his face, something cheshire.

… _yeah. that’s a good word for this._

_…_

_hey, can you hear…_

\-- / --

there’s a fire in his lungs and he knows they’re set to die.

the clock ticks in the centre of it all and he can’t hear a sound above the beat of his chest-- _thump thump thump_ \-- and the faint screams from a cabin that isn’t really soundproof. he hopes it isn’t a murder, but he doesn’t think the screamer could die, that hinata could die die die die die die die die die

(he’s waiting for a system restart.)

he tears at his hair and calls it tranquility, scratches at his skin in all the places he thinks he could hide, almost breaks through the skin of a bruise he already had, one he called a hickey in the nightmares, and he wants to smear a trickle of blood against himself. maybe it’ll reveal something, a constellation of scars, maybe he’ll find out who he is-- no, who _hinata_ is-- and there’s a reason he has never been to a party and-

_godgodgodgodgod_

he throws the door open, walks so far that his legs begin to pulse and seize and collapse by the time he hits the farthest corner of the beach, and he buries his fists into the sand so he can keep them from launching into the ocean, from chasing a fish he’ll never reach, and _maybe hinata is just a glimmer of sunset scales because he doesn’t think he’ll ever catch_

and maybe, maybe someday, they can be happy again. they can kiss and cuddle and fuck and drink and do the thousands of things komaeda thought could make up his bones, hollowed out with nothing but obsession and affection, maybe he can give himself to the other someday while sipping from soda cans, and maybe he can finally learn to sleep in the arms of a titan, and

_sleepsleepsleep_

he forces his head under the water as he screams, the saltwater burning his eyes and throat until he’s in agony, and his back collapses on the beach sand as he stares at an unforgiving sky and laughs so hard his ribs are fit to break, coughing and sputtering out all the water until he can convince himself he isn’t a corpse yet, and he almost wants to do it again but he knows that hope isn’t here, hope isn’t anywhere near him, 

and if he squints at the sky, he can see himself reaching a hand down towards hinata, explaining the predicament they found themselves in, like a pinky promise in the throes of tragedy-

-his chest screams the water back into the dead as he sobs.

\-- / --

his watching-over-an-ill-komaeda turns to self discovery way too quick for comfort.

they’ve been sitting here for fifteen minutes, and his body begins to twitch with the signs of _something is coming._ he reaches a hand forward, tucks a sweaty curl behind komaeda’s ear, and stares at his fingertips as if they did something wrong, because _something is coming_ and it’s not the love of either of them, and why can’t he _control_ himself? all the while, komaeda watches and smiles in a way that has to be genuine before rambling again about how much he _hates_ hinata, how _horrible_ it is to see him-

-and he doesn’t overthink his decision to leave until he’s halfway down the hall.

something is coming, something is missing, fuck his amnesia because _what is he missing something is coming what is he what is he_ komaeda, it involves komaeda, and why does komaeda hate him, and he’s dying, and-

_liar’s disease._

he remembers, now.

and, fuck, he can’t _blame_ komaeda, can’t hold the shitty circumstances against him, knows, now, that komaeda was probably just begging for him to stay, pleading, confessing that he _loves_ -

-but the thing is, he knows this, now, knows that komaeda wants him to stay, knows that komaeda probably feels guilt in the pit of his fucked-up stomach and desperation in the back of his fucked-up mind and maybe resentment in the midst of his fucked-up heart, and he wouldn’t even _mind_ being there, pretending that the feverish komaeda is the same one he almost fell in love with only a week before.

he knows this, in every sense, in every fragment of his teenage psyche, but he keeps walking down the hallway. because, he can’t bring himself to go back. to hold a komaeda that feels like a corpse, to rationalize to himself that he can still love the fucked-up person he became with his fucked-up body and fucked-up thoughts, separate the concepts of _he’s horrible_ and _i love him_ when it’s damn near impossible to even _think_

so he keeps walking, checks on the other patients, hangs in the lobby and waits for a catastrophe that he knows is bound to happen.

_how did we end up like this… ?_

\-- / -- 

his fingertips shake around the rope, his hand appearing more skeletal in the lack-of-light the warehouse provides. distinctly, he can smell the stench of dust, dirt, even a _musk_ , and his face twitches at the fact. he feels dirty-- and he always feels that way-- but there’s a sin in the wake of his skin where a history is etched,

and it takes every _piece_ of him not to claw himself apart.

he throws the rope over beams, prepares himself for the end, stabs into his thigh and clenches his teeth, because if he passes out from blood loss it’s _all over_ . and it doesn’t _hurt_ , not as much as he _thought_ , because the concept of enoshima junko’s hands tracing the contours of his body stings much _worse._

and the thought of hinata hajime’s hands doing the same is what turns his blood cold, makes his heart slow down, submits him to the frigid death.

he should hate hinata. and, in a sense, he’s always resented him, just a bit, the same way he resents everyone and everything. the thought of being free of that now, is… but, while he resented hinata, he also _loved_ him, loved him with every _piece_ of himself, wanted him to live-

-even now, despite _everything_ , he _still_ wants hinata to live, _still_ wants hinata to be the traitor-

-because he can’t forget the summertime kisses they snuck before this all began, against palm trees on their second night here, before the party was declared, before he ever did a single _thing._ he can’t forget the freckles on hinata’s cheeks, or the chartreuse in his eyes, or the way he would blush and laugh and scoff and… and even _now,_ even if it were just _scoffing,_ he wishes hinata was _here with him._

maybe it’s a caliber of codependency, a kind of selfish urge to find hinata, to let him know, to hold him tightly as the poison and the spear sunk in. but he knows that hinata wouldn’t agree to it, knows that there’s nothing he can do to persuade him, knows that he could never allow himself to hurt him, so he faces the poison and the spear alone. 

it’s a kind of tragedy shown in the corner of a library, and he misses the days where the two of them could go there and read and-

-and he _hates_ him, because he isn’t _hope,_ because he _caused despair_ and they _all did_ and hinata isn’t an _exception_ so komaeda shouldn’t _love him_ and stabs the knife into his hand and readies the spear and footsteps outside he shouldn’t _love him this much_ but he _does he loves him and he_ just needs to _die and pray that maybe_ hinata will be the _traitor and live and_ pray that maybe komaeda didn’t go against _everything that made him himself just for him always for him_ and it’s reaching a fever pitch and he drops the spear and fuck fuck fuck _hinata-kun hinata-kun hinata-kun i love you i love you i love you_ and he can’t _see anything_ can’t breathehthehtetheh _hiantatkusn hinatakujn hinatakusfh hJAIEM HAJIEJME H AJIME_ **_HAJIME HAJIME HAJIME_ **

(… 

_h…_

he wishes they could have died in parallel tracks to how they lived.

_…_ )

\-- / --

he slides the lid off the pod, eyes burning with the insomnia’s collision with psychodive screens, and his hand reaches for the fingers of a comatose patient. he sobs, maybe out of the vulnerability of being awake for three days straight, and squeezes as hard as he can. “wake up, komaeda,” he whispers. “please.”

(and even then, he knows what he always has: if the world was fair, they would both be dead.)

_hey…_

_… can you hear me?_

**Author's Note:**

> so.
> 
> this was supposed to be a quick little thing i'd write, since most of my current wips are a lot more, hm. complex? drawn out? not really sure. so, this was actually just going to be the first scene, just a bit extended. then, i threw in a second scene. then a third. then, i just said "fuck it all", and that's how this happened.
> 
> which is why it isn't really... hm. seamless? it doesn't connect super great. it wasn't meant to. but when i added more of the segments, i decided to change my course. and i didn't change my course very well. my writing process, these days, has not been super great, so it's kind of hard for me to look through something and edit. so this was kind of a disaster.
> 
> in any case, it definitely exists now. yup yup
> 
> anyway, have a nice day, lovelies! hopefully i'll be posting a fic for a super special fic week in a couple of days... :eyes:
> 
> <3


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